


Greed | The Cost of a Collection

by protectnevillelongbottom



Series: Seven Shades of Sin [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Aloof Draco, Casual Sex, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Drunk Sex, Fantasy, Gryffindor Bucket List, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Draco Malfoy, Regret, Secret Crush, Seven Deadly Sins, Unprotected Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectnevillelongbottom/pseuds/protectnevillelongbottom
Summary: Draco's collection is almost complete.Greed— the inordinate desire to acquire or possess more than one needs.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Dean Thomas, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Oliver Wood, Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy
Series: Seven Shades of Sin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677472
Comments: 7
Kudos: 126
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	Greed | The Cost of a Collection

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Sin anthology](/series/1677472), the first in a series of planned collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> Warning: Dubious consent due to intoxication.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Jg0tLy); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.

* * *

**Introduction**

* * *

The world at two o’clock in the morning was riddled with silent beauty. The rolling fog under the yellow street lamps, endless wonder when looking up into the darkness of the black sky. The feeling of contortion, though everything was in place. A body, heavy and hot underneath him, bringing him back to reality. 

Draco found himself in this place often.

He couldn’t help but pant, feeling beads of sweat gather at his temples as his hips made full contact, the slap of skin on skin echoing all the way up the 15-foot ceiling. His pace was brutal, taking it all for himself, but giving the man underneath him just enough to keep him there, submissive.

The man below him squirmed, only releasing whimpering or choked-off moans when he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He understood them, their desires. Most of them just wanted the experience; to be fucked by Draco Malfoy, the most prominent Slytherin they knew. They didn’t want word to spread around, even though it was whispered in private conversations, under silencing spells, and written on parchment attached to an owl’s leg. He didn’t mind. He knew he was a good shag. If word spread, it only helped him.

Draco was a collector of sorts. His specialities included vintage crystal vases, keys to unknown locks, trips abroad, and, most recently, Gryffindor men. He’d had most of them in his bed, the queer ones anyway, but there was one he hadn’t quite gathered the courage to pursue yet. And, unsurprisingly, it happened to be the lead Gryffindor: Harry Potter. 

Most of the ones he’d had were fine with one fuck, never trying to score a second round, never sticking around long enough for a pot of water to boil. And never asking questions. 

That’s how he liked it. 

Anyway, he needed focus on the task at hand — shagging Neville Longbottom. 

* * *

**Part 1**

* * *

Settling down in a chair at his dining table, an egg toastie and cup of tea set to his left, Draco reminisced on the past twenty-four hours. Longbottom had left in an embarrassed rush at around three in the morning, barely muttering a goodbye before the door clicked shut behind him. He remembered Longbottom absolutely sloshed at the pub the night before, dancing with anyone and everyone he could get his hands on. He was a terrible dancer but somehow Draco hadn’t minded while several glasses of Ogden’s finest in. After downing the last of his current glass, Draco had sidled up to the Gryffindor on the dance floor and snaked his hands around the front of Longbottom’s waist, grabbing hold of his hips as he ground back against Draco to the beat of the music. Draco hadn’t been expecting anything to happen with the man. Figured once Longbottom turned around and realised who was touching him, feeling him, he’d break off and run straight out the door. 

That failed to happen, though. In fact, when Longbottom had finally caught sight of him, he’d merely closed his eyes again and smirked. Draco could only imagine him lost in the euphoria of several alcoholic drinks and good music, as Draco, himself, had been nearly there as well. And when Longbottom had dragged him out to the street for “some fresh air”, the space lit up by the moon overhead and a single lamp several doors down, Draco had kissed him. 

He’d taken Longbottom back to his flat and they’d shagged into the wee hours of the morning.

Draco kept a list — several, in fact — in a little blue pocketbook that kept him company throughout his days as a… Well, he didn’t exactly have a job. He’d inherited the Malfoy fortune, after all. Manor, peacocks, history, and all. The house-elves took care of that, while Draco lived in a penthouse flat in downtown London amongst the Muggles.

The war had changed things. Many house-elves were freed in the aftermath, but most still preferred to be employed. The Malfoy elves were offered freedom when Draco became the head of the Malfoy estate. He’d stood in the kitchen of the Manor, the lot of them staring at him with wide, bulging eyes as he’d begun speaking, but in an act of disloyalty — or perhaps an overabundance of loyalty — they had merely turned back to their work and ignored the rest of his speech. Draco had resigned to giving them each one day off per week and a small salary. Most of the elves kept their money in sacks under their thin pillows, without the thought of ever using it, but Draco had given it to them and that was all that mattered.

Hogwarts had changed, as well. Draco had reinstated his parent’s position on the Board of Governors, though he frankly thought himself too young to be a part of it. Muggle Studies was now a required course. The four houses remained, but all competition between them ceased. No more House Cup, no more point system, et cetera. The Quidditch teams were now voluntary, that is — students could pick the team they were on. The castle was still being repaired now, even several years later, but the structure never seemed stronger. Draco had been wary of returning for his eighth year at first, expecting people to point fingers, hex him, or even intentionally get him expelled. But most of the returning students and professors seemed too tired to place the blame on anyone but Voldemort. Most would rather focus on recovery.

In response, Draco changed as much as he was required to not be hexed constantly while walking down the street. He donated a good portion of his inheritance to Muggle-born charities, Muggle organisations, and even Granger’s house-elf foundation. All in all, he hadn’t changed that much. He still preferred the company of pure-bloods, though Slytherin background was no longer required for his friendship. His biggest change, however, was that he had become an excellent actor. 

Draco’s little book had a home in the pocket of his waistcoat during the day (his bedside table at night) and held Draco’s lifeblood, his collection plans, his notes, everything. If one were to flip through this book, they wouldn’t be able to piece together what individual pages meant, except for perhaps the very last page, which held Draco’s list of bent Gryffindors, ones he’d bedded as well as ones he planned to. 

Draco wasn’t ashamed of his list, no. In fact, he was quite proud of the collection he’d acquired, even the ones collected by mistake. Drunken mistakes. The first Gryffindor had been Oliver Wood, who’d had an affinity towards Slytherins ever since he and Marcus Flint had been rivalling Quidditch captains. That one hadn’t been planned or expected, and yet Draco would soon rely on fucking Gryffindors, even going so far as to plan his days around it. Wood had said something during their night together which resonated with Draco. In the throes of orgasm, Wood had whispered breathlessly into Draco’s ear, “Doesn’t it feel fucking fantastic when Gryffindors and Slytherins shag? Almost feels like something we shouldn’t have, but gods, I can’t get enough.” And then Wood had proceeded to ride Draco so hard he felt like he’d have bruises on his hips for weeks.

Later that night, when Wood had made his exit with only a sly smirk sent his way, Draco couldn’t help but think of all the things — well, _men_ — he could’ve had if he’d only thought about it the way Wood had framed it. The Gryffindors, Wood had said Draco _shouldn’t have_ , and yet Draco just wanted them more. He wanted them all.

* * *

**Part 2**

* * *

Draco let his gaze travel down to the other end of the bar, settling on Potter. He was dressed in a maroon sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and loose-fitting jeans — the kind Draco had seen the Muggle farmers wear during the summers in Wiltshire. And yet, despite the Gryffindor’s casual nature, Draco could see the appeal. Potter was deeply tanned, his skin looking so soft and cared for, unlike the pale, usually bruised quality Draco had noticed Potter often donned during their childhood. Potter was an attractive bloke, in Draco’s completely objective opinion. 

Draco hailed the bartender and sent a drink Potter’s way, just for the hell of it. That’s what he was here for anyway, he may as well just start the process. Draco almost laughed when the drink was set in front of Potter and Potter, always the Gryffindor, explained he hadn’t ordered the drink. A few quick words were exchanged before the bartender backed away to help others. Potter looked around, and that was Draco’s chance. He raised his glass to Potter, making heavy eye contact, then took a long pull from it. Potter, clearly confused, nodded to Draco and took a hesitant sip. 

Draco waited, ordering a second drink for himself, watching Potter out of the corner of his vision. Potter had drunk from the glass Draco had sent over slowly, as if he thought maybe Draco had had the bartender poison it, but it was merely a generous pour of whisky. Potter ordered his next one with ice and Draco filed that information in the back of his mind for later. 

Potter’s behaviour was very interesting, as Draco could generally pinpoint which type of socialiser one was just by observing them at a bar. Potter, however, didn’t fit into any category. He kept to himself a majority of the time, spinning his tumbler on the counter as if by nervous habit. He looked around a lot, as if wishing someone would talk to him or wishing he could join conversations, but he never made a move. Draco couldn’t help but wonder why Potter was here, if not meeting friends. Unlike Draco, who considered himself a solo artist at the bar, Potter changed over the course of the night. A couple next to him pulled him into a conversation and his entire face lit up, like he’d been waiting all night for someone to speak to him. 

Potter didn’t exactly surprise Draco anymore. When they were kids, teenagers, Potter could easily hit Draco with a comeback, sneak into the Slytherin carriage to eavesdrop on them, and have a Stinging Hex placed on him so his face was unrecognisable as he found himself caught in Malfoy Manor. And the things Draco heard he did during the war as well, like successfully casting the Cruciatus Curse on Amycus Carrow, breaking into Gringotts and escaping on the back of a dragon, and so on. But nowadays, Draco thought, Potter had become predictable. He’d bought himself a house close to where Draco knew the Weasley’s resided, joined the Auror force at the Ministry, and was almost married, although he broke it off within a month of the wedding. 

Actually, that last one rather fit into the first category. Potter’s split with the youngest Weasley was the front page of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly for nearly a fortnight. The girl-Weasley had immediately moved back into her childhood home, but that was apparently too close still, as she then relocated to London and was drafted by the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team. Draco had been to a couple of matches, as the Harpies were the team he preferred in secret since his childhood, and the girl-Weasley was one of the better players on the team, he had to admit. He’d never issue that compliment to her face, though. Not that he would ever find himself face to face with her.

He’d successfully avoided the Weasleys for the past few years, and frankly he intended to keep it that way. 

The couple finally bid goodbye and Potter, in turn, ordered another drink for himself, eyes once again travelling around the bar and landing on Draco. Draco, luckily, had still been watching Potter out of the corner of his eye and was absentmindedly chatting with the woman next to him. Her name was Rebecca, or Rachel, or… something. Draco had been letting her do the majority of the talking, considering she hadn’t even stopped to allow him a response anyway. Potter watched him until a fresh drink was placed in front of him, then seemed to revert back to his previous loner state. 

Draco noticed a pattern which repeated multiple times over the course of the night. Someone would approach Potter, speak for several minutes, then move on. Eventually, though, Potter seemed to have had enough and wandered away. Draco, who’d actually begun listening to R-whatever’s rant, hadn’t noticed until he looked one moment and Potter was gone. Disappointed, Draco resigned himself to finish off his current conversation and then go home, ready to try again the next night. That was until Potter showed up behind him, clearing his throat so sharply it felt like a dagger had been thrown between him and the woman next to him. 

“Just wanted to say thanks for the drink,” Potter said to him, before turning to the girl and seeming to size her up.

“Care for another?” Draco offered, standing for just long enough to switch to the empty barstool next to him, leaving an empty seat right where Potter was standing.

Already sitting down on the proffered stool, Harry claimed, “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s alright,” the woman — Draco never did clarify her name — started, “I’ve got to be getting home anyway.” Neither of the men paid any attention to her. Draco wasn’t sure what sort of conversation they would be having once she was gone, but maybe it would play out. 

Draco hailed to the barman, who immediately wandered over. “Another for me and he’s drinking whisky on the rocks,” Draco half-spoke, half-shouted. 

“Were you watching me?” Potter asked, sliding his empty glass across the counter so it could be taken away when the bartender brought them each a fresh one.

“Of course not,” Draco lied immediately, easily. 

“Okay, right,” Potter murmured, his curved lips lifting in a small smirk, almost hidden by the sip of whisky he took directly after. 

Draco distractedly followed suit, taking a delicate sip. He’d never noticed the way Potter’s eyes shined so bright when he smiled. It was almost intoxicating. Potter was attractive, Draco had already admitted that to himself earlier in the night, but the thought kept repeating in his mind. He’d had a mild, fleeting crush on the bloke in school, but once the war began he could no longer allow himself to think about it. Liking the one person Voldemort was after was too risky, too dangerous. Over time, those feelings had faded out and Draco had only thought about Potter when he was in the news, or in this case, on the list.

He leaned his elbow on the counter, facing Potter. “How are you, then?”

Potter laughed at that. “I’m fine, Malfoy. How are you?”

“I’m great,” Draco responded. Silence followed. Stupid, awkwardly silent silence. Draco was generally pretty good at avoiding this kind of thing, but Potter was different from all the others. Draco couldn’t pinpoint what it was, and resigned himself to watching the man next to him in search for answers.

Potter was calm, taking slow sips of his whisky, licking his lips every time he set the glass back down. Draco couldn’t help but reflexively do the same. He knew at the back of his mind that the silence was dragging on too long, that Potter would probably scurry away if Draco didn’t say something soon, explain himself, or even make a move.

“How’s the training program?” Draco blurted out, startling Potter and himself in the process. Potter looked at him as if he’d grown a few more heads, not bothering to answer Draco’s question.

“What are you doing?” Potter asked, setting his glass, heavy with Firewhisky, down with an audible thump and turning to look at Draco expectantly.

Smirk forming across his face, Draco replied, “Well, I’m the heir of the Malfoy fortune. I like to spend my days collecting vases and—”

“I meant what are you doing _here_? Right now.”

“Sitting? Talking? Inquiring about your—”

Potter’s face turned sour for the briefest of moments before he spoke again. “You’re flirting.”

“That is an interesting, and false, accusation.”

“It won’t work, Malfoy,” and before Draco had a chance for rebuttal, Potter continued, “Look, I can’t deny I’ve thought about it before when I’d had a few drinks. A _lot_ of drinks,” he pointedly emphasised, “but there’s too much in our past that I just can’t set aside. We don’t like each other, and we never have.”

“Thought about it, have you?” Draco smirked again, signalling to the bartender for yet another round. 

“Of course you focus on that part,” Potter sighed, swirling the ice around in his glass fast enough that if it weren’t for the pounding bass of club music, Draco would probably hear it clinking against the glass. 

When fresh drinks were presented to them, they both silently sipped and stared across the bar. Of course, Draco was really only watching Harry through the mirrored back of the shelves holding various bottles of spirits.

“Hey, Harry!” someone shouted, who must have used a _Sonorus_ charm considering how loud the music was. Both Draco and Potter turned to look, and Potter immediately smiled and waved at whoever had called over to him. Draco turned back to stare at Potter, waiting for him to return to their conversation, but Potter, it seemed, was not nearly as interested as Draco wished he was. Mere seconds later, Potter had his coat slung over his arm. 

“If you buy me another drink, I’ll hex you,” Potter said, almost passively, as he grabbed his full glass and walked across the bar, away from Draco. 

As he feared, fucking Potter would certainly be a difficult task to achieve.

* * *

**Part 3**

* * *

The pub was packed the next time Draco found himself there, a local Wizard band Draco vaguely recognised gracing the stage and filling the pub with music that automatically made one nod their head to the beat. 

Draco wedged his shoulder between a broad man wearing a plaid shirt, who eyed Draco as if sizing him up, and a woman whose form-fitting dress looked as if it was one movement away from slipping down and revealing more than Draco wished to see. When his hip connected with the bar, he sighed with relief, quickly flagging down the bartender and ordering himself something strong. He threw a couple of Galleons on the bar and turned so he could lean his arse against the counter, peering around the place for a recognisable face.

Not many, he discovered. Pansy was in the corner, a man on either side of her, right where Draco knew she wanted to be. He watched as one of the men leaned in to whisper in her ear, her lips curving up in a silent laugh. The other man was brushing kisses and licks down the slope of her neck and shoulder. Draco would have to owl her tomorrow to see how that went.

Several Gryffindors took up a table meant for two, surrounding the surface in a wide circle. Empty glasses were piled up in the middle, a cheer emanating from that direction every time one of them added another glass to the top of the pile. Potter was absent from that group. In fact, the only one Draco could name was Dean Thomas; the rest he recognised as Gryffindors from years below him. 

Thomas… Draco set his drink down behind him and reached into his breast pocket, finding his little blue book where it often was. He flipped to the back, eyes scanning the list of names. Thomas wasn’t on it, but Draco had heard rumours at Hogwarts of Thomas hooking up with girls and boys alike. Most famously with the youngest Weasley before Potter supposedly stole her away. Draco wasn’t opposed to trying; Thomas was mildly attractive. Not what Draco would typically choose for himself, but, hell, he’d try anything for one night. Thomas had grown at least another few inches since the war, making him loom over a majority of his friends, only rivalling perhaps Potter’s Weasley, who’d long surpassed his peers in height. 

Draco folded his book closed, slipping it back where it belonged. He ordered another drink, draining his current one and sliding the glass across the counter to indicate he was done. 

Fresh drink in hand, Draco wandered over to the group. The stack of glasses was dangerously close to toppling over at this point. No one was touching the table any longer, most likely in fear it would do just that. He stood behind Thomas, off to the side, and cleared his throat. “May I join?”

“Malfoy!” Thomas laugh-shouted, his chair scooting back several inches as he stood up and thumped Draco on the back, forcing him to stumble forward. Draco, shocked and just a little bit suspicious, nodded as if Thomas had asked him a question. Thomas wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him up against his side and giving Draco a strong whiff of his cologne, mixed with the scent of alcohol and sweat lingering in the bar. “Mayfoy. Shit—,” Thomas laughed, “ _Mal-_ foy, let me introduce you.” 

It was at this point Draco could gauge exactly how drunk Thomas was, and the answer was: extremely. Thomas pointed to each individual in the circle and said something along the lines of, “great bloke right here”, when talking about each one. Draco said hello to each, nodding along with Thomas’ ramblings. Draco reached back and grabbed Thomas’ chair, pulling it forward so Thomas could sit back down. Draco waved his wand and another chair appeared so he could sit. 

The other Gryffindors eyed Draco at first, but seemed to calm when Thomas took Draco in so easily, as if they were old friends. Draco couldn’t even remember a single conversation he’d ever had with the bloke, but he’d take it. 

One of Thomas’ hands remained on Draco’s arm as he sat and joined in the chat. His drink was soon empty, and then was refilled several times by the bottle of Firewhisky that was passed around. He hadn’t been expecting to go off the rails, but he was well on his way. After finishing his latest round, Thomas grabbed his glass and held it up for the rest of the group to see. “It’s— Everyone, it’s Draco’s turn!” Thomas declared, giving him a push towards the centre of the group, where the table resided, untouched for the last hour at least. Draco and Thomas were the only two of the group who had still been drinking, the rest deciding to let their buzz cruise for the time being. 

The group cheered after Thomas spoke, watching Draco. Thomas placed Draco’s glass back in his hands and grabbed onto Draco’s shoulders, giving him a light shake. “Listen, mate. Listen, you can do this. You were—” Thomas paused to belch off to the side, laughing. “You were a great Quidditch player, just don’t knock it down. That’s the rule.”

“What happens if I do?” Draco questioned, the glass almost slipping out of his fingers. His reflexes were fucked, he could tell that easily. He wandered closer to the table, swaying with the weight of several strong drinks in his system.

“You have to pay the tab,” Thomas said offhandedly, standing behind Draco and bouncing excitedly. “No magic, go on!”

Draco started to turn back in protest, but Thomas just turned him back and the rest of the crowd cheered again, leaning forward in their respective seats. And Draco understood. This was like a sport to them, a game to play when they got together. Draco could hear a quick wager being made between a few people beside him. 

He placed a hand on the table, experimentally giving it a shake. The tower of glass wobbled dangerously, almost tipping over, and Draco backed away instinctively. 

It’s fine, he told himself. He could do this. He was skilled at balancing on a broom, he’d handled priceless vintage vases before. He could balance a measly glass, no problem.

Draco leaned over the table, keeping his hips far away so he didn’t accidentally bump against it, and settled his focus on the tower. He concentrated on figuring out the weight distribution, where he could put his glass and not have it fall or knock the whole thing down. 

A throat cleared behind him and he glanced over his shoulder, then shot straight up, glass still in hand. Potter. Potter had appeared, drink in hand, joining the circle of people who surrounded him. 

“Malfoy,” Potter addressed without emotion. He then craned his neck to look at the tower, smirking, as if he knew Draco couldn’t possibly place his glass without knocking the whole thing onto the floor, and waved his hand. “Go on, then.” Draco watched Potter for a moment, that smirk throwing him off. 

**+-+-+**

Draco woke up to sunlight seeping in around his curtains. He forced himself to peel his eyelids apart, then immediately shut them again. He tried to reach for his wand for the time, but his head swam. He settled back onto the pillow, letting out a pathetic whimper. 

What the hell happened last night? He couldn’t remember ever being this hungover. The last thing he remembered was Thomas’ hands wrapping around his waist, lifting him up. Oh, he thought. The tower. Draco hadn’t knocked it over. Thomas had kissed him in celebration, Potter had looked disappointed. Was that due to Draco’s success or Thomas’ kiss? He couldn’t tell. Flashes of the rest of the night went through his head. Another bottle of Firewhisky was purchased. Someone knocked over the tower, the sound of shattering glass still loud in Draco’s brain. Thomas brought him out to dance, the band replaced by a DJ playing Muggle party music. Draco could almost still feel the bass thumping in his chest. Then Potter had shown up again, whispering to Thomas. Thomas shaking his head, Potter leaving. Thomas’ hands on his arse, their hips grinding together on the dance floor. Potter again, angry this time, trying to talk to Draco over the music. Draco couldn’t remember what was said. 

The sunlight grew more intense, warming his face and making Draco see red behind his eyelids. He rolled over, burying his face under the covers, drifting back to sleep.

“Fuck,” someone groaned, stirring Draco from his half-sleep. “Fuck, is that Malfoy? Bugger…” they said and Draco felt movement on the other side of his bed. He pulled the covers down to reveal his face, hoping he didn’t look as unattractive as he felt in his current state. 

Thomas was seated on the edge of the bed, tugging pants on so slowly Draco thought he may have still been asleep. Draco heard a gag and then a sigh, watched Thomas lower his head into his hands, the planes of his back on full display. He was lean and not so muscular, like Draco. 

Draco tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse rasping sound. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Did we…?” he started, his voice barely a whisper and yet too loud. 

“I reckon so,” Thomas answered, the sound muffled through his fingers.

“Mm,” was Draco’s only answer. His eyes shut again, covers pulled up, drifting in and out to the sounds of Thomas gathering his clothes. 

* * *

**Part 4**

* * *

Gringotts was nearly empty by the time Draco arrived. It was late on a Friday afternoon, the bank closing in a mere ten minutes or so. Most of the employees were gone, leaving a few scattered across the lobby, conducting last-minute business before the week was out. Draco was escorted down to his vaults, where he filled a few pouches with Galleons. 

There were three people left in the lobby when he returned, one of which Draco knew and didn’t expect to see. Potter was chatting amicably with a goblin, who did not seem to want to continue the conversation. Draco, still not fully recovered from the night he’d spent with Thomas several weeks ago, had every intention of walking by without making eye contact, without speaking. But then the bloke had to go and address Draco himself.

“What are you doing here?” Potter said in an accusing voice, the sound echoing throughout the lobby.

“I’m checking on some investments,” was Draco’s response, turning back to face Potter.

Potter rolled his eyes, switching his pile of files from one arm to the other. “Of course you are.” 

“Look, do you want to go somewhere and talk?”

“No,” Potter said firmly.

“Clearly everything that happened when we were children still bothers you, considering how little you can stand to look me in the eye, so why don’t we just talk about it so we can both move on?” Draco had given Potter a wide berth when he was trying to leave, and he closed that distance, now only standing a few feet away.

“Merlin, you really are an arsehole,” Potter sighed. 

“Come back to my place and we can—” Draco began, but Potter’s sharp bark of incredulous laughter interrupted him. 

“Do you really think I’m that thick, Malfoy? You actually think I would go to _your place_?” 

“I was _going to say_ that we can go back to my place so if you want to hex me no one would be around to stop you.”

“Why would I want to hex you?”

“You’re saying you don’t?”

“I don’t really think about you, Malfoy. Ever. We’re not friends, we don’t have anything in common, and we’ve not spoken to each other since your trial and that was years ago.”

“We spoke two weeks ago,” Draco stated, not liking the sudden turn in the conversation. 

“Can’t really classify that as a conversation. You were sloshed, wouldn’t listen to anything I said.”

“If I’m honest, I don’t remember that night much. And it’s just talking, I swear,” Draco insisted. “We can do it in public if you like. Hell, we could Apparate to the middle of Auror headquarters right now so if I try to hex you they’ll arrest me. I don’t really care where it happens, just that it does.”

“And then you’ll stop showing up wherever I am and harassing me like this?”

“Yes, obviously.” Though Draco wanted to point out the last two times they’d seen each other, it was Potter who had “shown up”.

Potter seemed to weigh his options for a few seconds before declaring, “Fine. Meet me at Rosita’s, by the owl emporium. Seven o’clock.” 

“I’ll be there.”

**+-+-+**

Rosita’s was a crowded restaurant, yet the noise level was so low Draco surmised that nearly every table was under a _Muffliato_. Potter was seated in the back corner at a small table set for two, a good distance from any of the surrounding tables. Draco sat primly across from Potter, spreading his cloth napkin across his lap purely on muscle memory alone.

A waiter came by with a bottle of wine, making a point to show the label to Potter, who just nodded without really taking the time to look, before uncorking it and pouring them both a tasting. Potter, the heathen, didn’t even wait for the waiter to walk away before grabbing the bottle and dumping enough wine in to fill his glass to the brim. Draco watched in fascination (and disgust) as Potter downed half the glass without a word, or even the barest glance at Draco, and then proceeded to peruse the menu for the next several minutes.

It was at this point Draco realised they still hadn’t spoken, so he set his hands on the table in a businesslike manner and cleared his throat. Potter’s eyes flicked up to meet his own and he slowly set down the menu.

“I figure I should start,” Draco said in a firm voice, though a hint of question came through. He wasn’t normally this nervous; generally, the men he pursued were already half-drunk and up for most things. But this was different, almost intimate. Draco realised he hadn’t been on a date in over a year; hadn’t even been out to eat with friends for nearly that long. 

Potter didn’t seem interested in him in the least, despite Draco’s attempts to not only flirt, but also make Potter jealous. Draco had to do the only thing he could think of to get Potter to look at him as something more than just the bullying kid he used to be. Merlin, did he really have to do this?

Draco cleared his throat once more and declared, “I apologise.”

Potter’s distrusting expression did not change. In fact, Potter didn’t seem to react at all, so Draco decided it would be best to continue the apology. “I was a right pillock back at Hogwarts. Especially fourth and fifth year, I know. Look, I’m not asking for forgiveness, I just want you to know I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry for what Voldemort made me do.”

Potter merely raised an eyebrow. “What do you want from me, Malfoy? I can’t forgive you. I can’t understand. Your entire life, you chose the wrong side. Snape,” Draco flinched at that, “the executioner in third year. _Umbridge_?”

“But--” Draco tried, to no avail.

“Death Eaters! Voldemort, and I’m sure the list continues. We’re not going to be friends. There’s no way it would work.”

Draco really didn’t want to continue this conversation, not with the direction it was heading. He pursed his lips, trying to think of something to say, anything. He wondered if this was worth it, worth the pain of thinking about his past, his mistakes. Every other Gryffindor he’d been with had pointedly ignored having this conversation, avoiding addressing Draco’s role in their suffering. 

“Potter, can you really blame me for all that?”

“That’s it. Outside,” Potter demanded, throwing his napkin onto his empty place and hailing the waiter for the check. They hadn’t even gotten to the appetisers.

“Why, Potter,” Draco teased out of habit, “have I finally convinced you with my wiles?”

“Actually,” Potter began in a hushed, warning voice, throwing several Galleons on the table without so much as a glance at the check, “I was thinking more along the lines of me hexing your bollocks off.”

Draco hesitated. He rather liked his bollocks where they were, thank you very much. But Potter was walking out and Draco was running out of time to think. Did he even have a chance at this point? Was Potter only going to yell at him some more? Should he just cut his losses and Apparate back to his flat? 

Something, maybe Draco’s pride, forced him to follow Potter. He couldn’t just allow Potter to slander him, threaten him, without some sort of retaliation.

He weaved between tables and out the door. Potter was rounding on him before he even had a chance to blink, pointing a solid finger in his face. “You haven’t changed at all,” Potter declared, his eyes bright with fury and something Draco wanted to say was attraction, but couldn’t be certain. 

“Of course I have,” Draco argued, knocking Potter’s finger out of the way. 

“You haven’t. You’re still the same blood purist, attention-hogging little brat you were at Hogwarts.”

“How would you even know that? We’ve barely spoken since the war. Hell, we never spoke then, only fought. Who are you to say whether I’ve changed?”

“Because I’ve kept tabs on you, Malfoy!” Potter nearly exploded. “You really believed I haven’t thought about you? You think I don’t know your little ploy to get all the Gryffindors in bed? You _do_ know most of them are my _friends_ , right? I know all about you, Malfoy. Donating just enough money to make people think you’re a changed person, even living in Muggle London, paying your elves. And you know what’s worse? I believed it all, at first. I thought you were a better person, going to become someone with honour. I even…” Potter used his thumb and forefinger to rub at his eyes, not quite chuckling, “I even fancied you at one point.” 

_Fuck! What do I do now? If he knows about my plan, why is he still here? And— and Potter used to fancy me?_ Maybe there was still a chance…

Draco suddenly grabbed Potter’s wrist, pulling him close and Apparating them both before Potter had any chance to protest. 

Potter pushed him away when they landed, snapping, “Where are we?”

“My flat. You were saying you were in love with me?”

Potter shoved him again. “I _wasn’t_ saying that, you fuck.” Draco’s back hit the corner of the wall, sending a slight pain shooting down his spine. Potter walked closer, one of his hands twitching down by his side. Draco wasn’t sure if Potter wanted to punch him or pull out his wand and send a hex Draco’s way. “Any and all attraction I felt for you is long gone, Malfoy,” Potter stated almost formally, like it was a speech he’d recited to himself while lying awake in bed every night. But despite Potter’s declaration, he was still inching closer.

Draco watched Potter through half-lidded eyes, leaned back against the wall and waited as the Gryffindor approached. Potter’s hands came up, like they wanted to shove at Draco again, but landed on his chest instead. His fingers felt hot through Draco’s thin button-down and Draco thought if they were left any longer he’d burn. Draco could almost guess what was running through Potter’s mind. He still wanted Draco. He wasn’t happy about it, but those feelings were still there. 

Draco’s arm snaked around Potter’s waist, pulling them flush together. Potter glanced up, making eye contact. He was still angry, that was obvious, but there was that small bit of uncertainty in his expression which made Draco lean down and touch their lips together. 

The response was instantaneous. Potter’s fingers tightened themselves, clutching onto Draco’s shirt and no doubt wrinkling the fabric. His head tilted, slotting their lips together just right so that his tongue met Draco’s when their lips parted. Draco’s hand drifted lower, grabbing hold of Potter’s arse and turning them, so Potter was now the one pressed against the wall. And then they were off, Potter’s nails scratching against Draco’s skin in his effort to unbutton the fabric. Draco’s fingers followed the waistband of Potter’s jeans until he reached the button, undoing it with a flick of his wrist. His hand drifted lower, pressing his palm against Potter’s groin through his pants. 

Potter’s head pulled back so fast it thumped against the wall behind him, but that didn’t slow him down. His lips found the pulse point on Draco’s neck, scraping his teeth against it while his hips ground up into Draco’s hand. Draco’s knee wedged between Potter’s legs, pressing the shorter man fully against the wall.

Potter’s shirt came off next, getting caught on his glasses and sending them clattering to the floor. They stumbled their way to Draco’s bedroom, taking turns pressing each other against walls and furniture. Draco was thankful his precious vase collection was housed at the Manor, because Potter was not being gentle in the least. He pushed Potter down on the bed, grabbing a hold of the hems of Potter’s trousers and yanking them down his legs sharply.

“Merlin, you’re such a prick,” Potter muttered, tugging Draco down on top of him and connecting their lips once more. Draco pressed his hips down against Potter’s, feeling one of Potter’s legs wrap around him. Potter’s tongue wedged its way between Draco’s lips, tasting Draco’s own.

Draco rocked their hips together, feeling the hardness of Potter’s prick through the layers of fabric. Potter gasped, their lips parting for mere seconds before finding each other again. Potter’s hands slid down Draco’s sides, tickling his ribs and making him shiver, before they landed on his belt buckle. Before he could even blink, Potter had his trousers undone and was shoving the fabric down his legs, as far as he could reach without breaking the kiss. Potter’s fingers curled around Draco’s prick, giving it a firm stroke to the tip and making Draco whine against his lips.

Draco had half a mind to stay right there, Potter’s hand on his prick bringing him off. But he needed more, he wanted to get closer.

He pushed himself up, sitting back on his legs and tugging Potter’s pants off. Potter’s prick, heavy and flushed, laid against his belly, leaking at the tip. Draco kicked off his own trousers and pants and closed the distance between them again, dragging his lips up the slope of Potter’s neck. 

“Gonna fuck you,” Draco whispered hotly, teeth scraping against Potter’s earlobe. Potter spread his legs in response, allowing Draco’s body to fall between them. Potter muttered a lubrication charm, aimed at Draco’s hand, and the pad of Draco’s middle finger swiped against Potter’s hole. His finger slid in easily, Potter shuddering underneath him, and he wasted no time in adding another digit. Potter whined, pressing his arse down against Draco’s fingers.

“Just put your fucking prick inside me,” Potter insisted, his fingers curling in the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck and tugging sharply. Draco didn’t hesitate. He sat back up and coated his prick in the remaining lube, tugging Potter’s hips closer and lining himself up. Potter’s hand slid up Draco’s thigh, nails digging in when Draco began pushing into him. “Yessss, Merlin,” Potter hissed.

Draco pushed until he was fully seated inside Potter, head hanging down to watch himself. Potter squirmed below him, panting, silently encouraging Draco to move. Draco took the hint, gripping Potter’s hips as he pulled back and fucked into him again. When Draco finally looked up, Potter was watching him with a heavy stare, pupils blown. Draco came to a momentary halt, entranced.

What was that look? Salazar, but he could stare at it all day. 

Potter’s free hand flew to the back of Draco’s neck, tugging him back into a snog. Draco went willingly, his hips grinding deeply against Potter’s arse, over and over. He pressed his weight into his forearm, reaching down to grip Potter’s cock in his fist. The both of them groaned into the kiss, moving seamlessly together. Draco felt his body go hot, felt the telling stir in his lower stomach as he thrust into Potter. His hand tightened around Potter’s prick, stroking in time with his own hips. Potter broke the kiss, gasping for breath underneath him. Draco pressed his forehead into Potter’s shoulder, breath hitching, the friction between them threatening to send him over the edge. The heel of Potter’s foot dug into the back of Draco’s thigh, keeping him in place as Potter’s back arched, coating Draco’s fingers in his sticky release.

Merlin, did Potter look good that way. Lying underneath Draco, tossing his head from side to side and gasping through his orgasm.

Draco allowed him a few seconds to recover, then returned to his brutal pace. Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he fucked into Potter repeatedly, Potter mouthing at his neck. Draco’s release took him by surprise. He buried his face in Potter’s chest, letting out a deep groan as the pleasure peaked.

It took Draco several moments to move off Potter, pressing gentle kisses to Potter’s sweat-covered body, before bonelessly collapsing into the pillows at the head of the bed. Potter laid next to him, catching his breath, staring at the ceiling. Assuming Potter was overthinking what had just happened, Draco reached out to touch his shoulder. 

Before he made contact, Potter shot up. “I have to go,” he said simply, without emotion. He stood up and found his pants, tugging them on without grace.

“Potter—,” Draco started, sitting up as well. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, alright. My trousers, where did they go?” Potter was frantic, muttering to himself while on his knees, desperately trying to gather his clothes. 

Draco, having watched this scene dozens of times before, suggested, “Living room? I don’t know. Look, Potter, you don’t have to rush—”

“No, you listen, Malfoy. This won’t happen again. This _can’t_ happen again. How did it even happen in the first place?” Potter seemed to wonder that last part to himself, before taking one last, almost longing, look at Draco and fleeing. Draco wouldn’t chase after him. He never did that kind of thing. But for once he didn’t think he’d mind if someone he’d shagged stayed over. If Potter stayed.

When the front door slammed closed, creating a bitter end to Draco’s train of thought, he stood up. It hadn’t even reached eleven o’clock yet and Draco was unsure of what to do with himself. He wandered around, as if lost in his own apartment. He made tea, but left it to cool in his cup for too long and it grew cold. 

He gathered his clothes, startling when something thumped to the floor. His little blue book had slipped from his pocket, lying open on the shag carpet. Draco tossed his clothes in the laundry, scooped up the book, and deposited it in the bin.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Sin anthology](/series/1677472), a series of Drarry fics exploring the seven deadly sins.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://spoti.fi/2Jg0tLy); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


End file.
